


Meet You On The Other Side

by Purpleplasticpurse



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27925465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleplasticpurse/pseuds/Purpleplasticpurse
Summary: They could be a mess or not, and he wouldn’t even care, just as long as she’s with him, and there aren’t thousands of miles between them. Part 3/3, Emily comes home.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Emily Prentiss
Comments: 29
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell/gifts).



> Okay so … this started as a prompt on tumblr from the phenomenal Whump-Town on Monday, and I couldn’t get it out of my head, but I was way deep in Chapter 32 of We See No End. But somehow this wrote itself fairly quickly, so here it is, in its unedited, unrefined glory. Aaron/Emily obviously, in the days after Lauren as everything is about to fall apart. It’s sadsville in this one, yet I wrote most of this while A Christmas Story played in the background, which wasn’t an entirely terrible way to spend a Sunday if I do say so myself.
> 
> Finally - this one goes out to AtLeastWeWontBeLonelyInHell, as a thank you for always listening to my ramblings and for being the most supportive reader there is!

**Meet You On The Other Side**

_ Yes I understand that every life must end _

_ As we sit alone I know someday we must go _

It’s been only nine days since they’d found her in Boston of all places, bleeding out on the cold ground of the dark, abandoned warehouse, a wooden stake impaled in her abdomen with blood seeping out of her and the stench of burning flesh in the air. And while  _ he _ hadn’t been the one to find her, he’d  _ seen  _ it with his own two eyes. It’s an image he would spend the rest of his life trying to forget. 

Nine days since he  _ watched  _ her code on the table in the middle of that  _ fucking _ emergency room - one of the few moments in his life he can actually remember feeling  _ true  _ fear. The alarms and constant beeping of the machines had been horrifying, a nauseating juxtaposition of the practiced ease of which the doctors moved around her, stabilizing her, rambling off medical jargon as she flatlines in the ER, not once, but twice. It takes almost everything he had in him not to vomit on the floor right there, and it's only when he heard the staccato rhythm of the EEG monitor, indicating  _ she’s alive _ , did he even take a breath. He isn’t sure he took another until after she’s out the damn operating room. 

_ None of this was ever supposed to happen _ . He blames himself, partly because he never saw it coming, and partly because he’d been too preoccupied with  _ everything else _ going on around all of them to even notice something was  _ horribly wrong _ with Emily. JJ’s sudden departure, Ashley’s arrival - a slew of cases, each one more demanding than the last, the exhaustion that comes along with the daily demands of their jobs, the never ending paperwork -  _ all _ of it.

Not to mention, what had  _ happened _ between the two of them, shortly after JJ had left. They hadn’t even been together that long, if  _ together  _ was even the right word to use. They’d only  _ just _ started leaving things in each other’s apartments - tooth brushes, sweatpants, a few miscellaneous toiletries. A lump rises in his throat when he remembers the fact that she’d left a well-worn Yale sweatshirt on his bed just the other day before all hell broke loose. He hasn’t been home since. It’ll be there waiting upon his return, a mocking reminder of  _ everything _ he never saw coming. 

In those nine days, things went from bad to worse, if that was even possible. Once Emily had been stabilized, with things still touch and go, Hotch had been the one to make the call to the Bureau. He explained, with a hint of reserve in his tone, just what had happened in Boston, and despite the fact that Emily _still_ wasn’t out of the woods, they had _bigger_ problems - Ian Doyle’s escape being number one. And of course, the bureau hadn’t been happy. They’d been _furious_. Just at whom, he isn’t quite sure, but he takes the brunt of it anyway. There was of course, the tongue-lashing that came thanks to his unawareness of it all - the fact that Emily essentially went rogue to take down Doyle, _after_ she’d stayed silent about the entire thing for the last several days. They hadn’t been happy _at all_. And regardless of _all of that_ , all the things she never told him - or any of them - he isn't’ angry with her. Not now. Not like this. Not when this is how it’ll end. 

The decision to put her under protection, with a whole new identity, hadn’t been entirely his own, and he’d only had about fifteen minutes on the phone before he  _ had  _ to figure out a way to break the fake news to the team.  _ The team.  _ Luckily, JJ had spared him that task, more composed than he ever could be. Their grief had been genuine as he knew it would have been, and his own heart broke for them in those moments as they tried to make sense of a situation that, in his opinion, may  _ never _ make sense. 

He’s lost in his own thoughts on a hard, plastic hospital chair when he hears Emily’s scream. 

Within seconds he’s standing in the doorframe of her hospital room, pushing past the heavily armed guards who have stood vigil 24/7 since she’d arrived there just a few days ago. What shocks him is what he sees just a moment later. In fact, it nearly knocks the air right out of his lungs. Emily is in the middle of the room, her face a pale, ashen grey, her forehead soaked with sweat, her hair hanging limply in her eyes. She’s leaning on a nurse to her right just a little too heavily, her left hand clutching an IV pole. She’s shaking her head, her lower lip caught between her teeth, biting so hard she’s started to draw blood.

_ What in fresh hell is going on?  _

“I can’t,” she chokes, her voice strained and even from where he’s standing he can see she’s shaking; her shoulders are trembling with effort. There’s no denying the tears that are running down her face, the unbearable pain she’s undoubtedly feeling. “Please don’t make me.” It comes out as a hoarse whisper this time. “I just can’t.” 

“Emily, you need to take a few steps. It’s the only way you’ll regain your strength.” There’s a nurse to her right, supporting Emily more than she should be. “Just a few more to the bathroom, and then we’ll try again later.” 

Emily only glares at her, blinking back a few more tears as she struggles to move even a few inches.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Hotch barks angrily, and he instantly regrets it when Emily turns her head too quickly, causing her to whimper in pain. 

“Agent Hotchner,” one of the tall, balding doctors he’s gotten to know somewhat well over the course of the last week - Dr. Howell - steps in between them quickly, holding up his hands. “I’m going to have to ask you to  _ step outside  _ with me, please.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Doctor.” He doesn’t bother to turn around. 

“ _ Agent Hotchner _ ,” he says, this time a little more forcefully, exhaustion evident in his face. Hotch isn’t sure he’s ever seen the man  _ not _ look completely drained. 

Glancing between the doctor and Emily, Hotch hesitates, but only because of the mild embarrassment he sees on her face. And he’s not surprised, if he’s being completely honest. Her current state is the complete opposite of how she’s always been - the strong one of the team, the one who willingly puts herself in the most dangerous situations, who gets shot at and barely flinches, the one who gets abused at the hands of a religious fanatic while undercover and merely says,  _ I can take it. _ The one who sustained a severe concussion transporting an unsub and was back at it mere hours later. It’s all too much; he has to look away. 

He obliges and follows Dr. Howell into the hallway. 

“What the hell is going on in there?” He demands once they’re out of her room. Hotch swallows hard, his fists tightening reflexively at the image seared in his mind. 

“The Bureau has been pretty clear they want her discharged as soon as possible. They’ve been very persistent the last couple of days that we ensure her care is progressing and we aren’t delaying her progress by keeping her immobile unnecessarily.” He rubs his neck, shifts from foot to foot, looking as if he has more to say but decides against it. Hotch notices Dr. Howell doesn’t use Emily’s name, in case there are any  _ wandering _ ears that may be privy to the conversation. 

“She’s recovering from major surgery and a life-threatening injury, not taking a few days of vacation!” He can barely contain the anger in his voice. “You think she’s strong enough to walk out of here? She can barely sit up unassisted!” He can’t help but raise his voice, and glancing over his shoulder back into the room, the look on Emily’s face tells him everything he needs to know. 

_ She heard the entire exchange.  _

“I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises, Agent Hotchner,” Dr. Howell says, this time his tone is a bit more forceful. “I’m under strict orders from the Bureau to discharge her as soon as possible. As I’m sure you’re aware, they’re concerned about how much this is costing them.” 

“It shouldn’t matter.” He has to fight to keep his voice even and low enough that no one around them can hear. 

“I don’t make the rules, Agent. I do what I’m told, in the best interest of my patients.” 

“Is that so? It sounds like quite the opposite. In fact, it sounds like you’re making a mistake,” Hotch’s mouth presses into a thin line and he spins on his heel, turning back to Emily’s room, only to find things worse than he’d left them, much to his chagrin. 

“Agent Jareau, you need to take a step back,” says the nurse still at Emily’s side, clearly frustrated with JJ. “It’s important for Agent Prentiss to get out of bed and move around to expedite the healing process.” 

“She’s in pain. Look at her,” JJ snaps, her blue eyes darkening with anger. “I  _ hardly _ think this is  _ helping,”  _ she says with disdain. “I think she’s had enough for today.” Coming to stand beside Hotch, the two of them watch helplessly for another minute as Emily struggles to move even a little bit. She hardly seems to notice their presence at this point. 

As she takes another half-step, Emily cries out in pain, her knuckles wrapped so tightly around the IV pole they’ve turned white. “I feel sick,” she mutters, lifting her hand to brush some of the matted hair out of her eyes. “Please, I need to lay down.” 

“Just a few more steps, Agent Prentiss,” the nurse says once more, doing her best to keep Emily upright. It appears to be a losing battle. 

“I can’t watch this anymore, Hotch.” JJ turns around, arms wrapped around herself, stalking towards the door and slipping past him. “I can’t stay in here. I’ll call the fucking bureau myself and tell them this is utterly insane.” 

“Hotch, don’t let her do that-” Emily has all but stopped moving, she’s leaning on the IV stand at this point, at such an angle it looks as though she’s about to rip the tubing right out of her arm. “This is my fault.” And then before anyone even realizes what’s happening, she’s doubled over, vomiting right onto the floor. 

Before he can even think twice, Hotch pushes the nurse aside, sidesteps the vomit, and reaches for Emily, lifting her into his arms as gently as he can given the extent of her injuries. His heart twists when she cries out but she sinks into him, resting her head on his chest without as much as a complaint.  _ She’s lost so much weight already _ , he thinks as he carries her carefully back to the bed a mere ten feet away, holding her gently, rocking her in his arms. It’s completely against  _ every  _ rule they’d set just before  _ all _ of the shit hit the fan. He has a million questions for her, yet he isn't entirely sure he wants the answers.

“Agent Hotchner, what are you doing?” The nurse is staring at them both incredulously, then glancing at Dr. Howell nervously. 

“This stops now,” Hotch growls at them both, not unaware of the way Emily sags against him with exhaustion. “If you even think about trying this again before she’s ready, we’ll have a problem.” His tone is harsh and she flinches in his arms - she  _ knows  _ that tone well - she’s heard it many times over the years. “Is that clear?” He doesn’t bother to wait for the doctor’s response.

“Hotch,” she mutters, her body still trembling. “You didn’t have to do that. You’re not in charge here, you know,” she mumbles, a touch of amusement in her voice that’s still laced with pain.

“Relax,” he murmurs into her ear, brushing her hair away from her eyes with more tenderness than he expected. “You’re alright. It’s over,” he adds soothingly, even if he isn’t sure just what the hell to even say. None of this is over, none of this is even remotely alright, and it may never be. It’s the first time he’s held her - touched her, even - since all of this. His eyes burn; he presses his lips to her forehead, not even bothering to care that Emily’s nurse is  _ still  _ in the room. 

“We need to replace that IV line,” the nurse says timidly, taking a step in their direction. Only then does he see the IV tubing was in fact ripped right out of her hand, leaving a huge, angry bruise in its place, already a nasty shade of black and blue. “That was her morphine drip.”

“Then do it,” Hotch says, not letting go of Emily. He continues to rock her in his arms until she’s barely able to keep her eyes open. The morphine has started to take effect, and as her eyes flutter open once more, he murmurs, “Sleep. I’ll be right here.” He doesn’t have much time left with her - that much he knows - he might  _ never _ have another moment like this ever again. 

“I know.” She gives his hand the lightest squeeze. “You always will be.” 

_ How would he ever do this without her?  _


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What she’ll see when she thinks of him is how broken he looks right now, and for a brief moment, she wishes she would have bled out on the ground in Boston. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So … this was only supposed to be a one shot, but I guess I was in the mood to shatter my own heart a few times around this week. This is set shortly after part one, after everything has fallen apart. Enjoy <3 

**Just Breathe**

_ Nothing you would take _

_ Everything you gave _

_ Hold me 'til I die _

_ Meet you on the other side _

He’s a shell of himself, or at least that’s what he’s heard people say when his back is turned. Rumors are rumors, but usually there’s at least a shade of truth behind them. And he’s  _ heard _ the whispers, he’s  _ seen _ the way people stare at him when he shows up each day, as pristine and intense as before, yet every day a bit more hollow and pale.  _ They say it gets easier with time, supposedly, but each day, it becomes harder to put one foot in front of the other. Some days, it’s hard enough to take a breath.  _

For the last two months he’s watched his team struggle (which is putting it mildly), and yet he’s seemingly helpless to all of it, simply because he can’t see through his own pain enough to do a goddamn thing. Garcia’s upbeat attitude doesn’t hide the fact that she can’t make it through a day without dissolving into tears. Morgan’s determination and steely exterior is an act. Most of his grief is poured into the gym, yet endorphins only last for so long before he too succumbs to the guilt, the what ifs, and the longing for answers. Reid barely hangs on, his eyes blank and his face a perpetual empty canvas, racked with confusion and questions, and Aaron watches him withdraw into himself until there isn’t much left. Rossi is the only one who  _ appears _ to have it together, but Aaron’s known him long enough to be the wiser. There’s a reason why Dave’s office light is always on at night when he leaves to pick up Jack, and it’s not because he’s doing paperwork. And Ashley - he can’t help but think he’s failed her. He brought her on only to brush her aside most days now, only because he can’t bring himself to care more than he absolutely has to. She holds her own; he’s not surprised (she’s already a  _ damn good  _ agent), and she tenderly walks the line of the outsider who just happened to stumble upon this close-knit group of people who endured an unspeakable tragedy. 

The FBI-appointed shrink they’re all mandated to see calls it  _ trauma _ , and even though he  _ doesn’t _ tell this woman with the kind eyes the  _ truth _ about his relationship (or whatever it was) with Emily, he doesn’t have to. It’s obvious from the minute he sits down on the couch, his silence speaking volumes. “You’ve suffered a great loss,” she told him as their first session had ended. “Grief manifests itself in many ways.” 

And it does. He’s no stranger to grief, especially in the last year, but this time, it’s raw, relentless, and suffocating, each day breaking him a little more than the last. Apparently there are five stages of grief - and in the wake of her “death” he feels each  _ intensely _ \- an absolute spectrum that renders him speechless and at times breathless. It’s like feeling your way through the dark, waiting for a light only to never find one, like waking up every day as a stranger in a foreign land. It leaves him exhausted, and unable to sleep more than an hour or two at a time. Time means nothing - 3 AM could easily be 3 PM, there’s little distinction between Saturday and Tuesday, Sunday and Thursday. It all runs together.

_Denial_ comes on quick, and at their first briefing back after her _death_ , (every _first_ without her feels like an item to cross off a fucked up, invisible checklist) he almost tells Garcia to hold off starting because _she’s_ on her wa _y. She’s just stuck in traffic; Northern Virginia is a parking lot at this hour anyway. She’ll be here soon_. Garcia just stares at him, her eyes wide, Reid gets up and leaves the room, his hand clamped over his mouth. Only after Rossi reaches out with a comforting hand on his shoulder does he realize they’ve taken _her_ chair away. _She’s not coming. She never will._

There’s  _ anger _ ; it builds and builds until he can’t see straight. It’s the blinding rage that overtakes him in the most inopportune moments - when they’re giving a profile and he needs to step outside because he can’t get enough air or unclench his fists, or when he’s having a phone conference with Jack’s teacher and suddenly the world stops turning and he has to hang up the phone because he’s shaking with rage. The anger at himself for not figuring it out on his own; he knew something was up, and he was too late. Anger at the doctors who worked valiantly to save her, and they  _ did, _ but couldn’t spare her the pain that comes along with healing from an injury as traumatic as the one she endured. The anger he feels for the secrets she kept, for all the ways they  _ failed _ her. 

_ Bargaining _ comes late at night, when he’s too exhausted to stop thinking for even a few moments of quiet reprieve.  _ If only _ , he decides, are the two  _ cruelest _ words in the English language when used together, and he tortures himself through each and every possible scenario he can come up with.  _ If only _ they had gotten there faster, they could have gotten to Doyle before he impaled her.  _ If only _ Clyde Easter had talked sooner and they would have pinpointed her location faster.  _ If only _ he’d been the one to find her on the ground in that cold, dirty warehouse, maybe he could have done something differently.  _ If only _ he’d pushed her a little more, asked a few more questions, before all hell broke loose. Bargaining is his personal form of hell. There are endless scenarios but no solutions, like an error analysis gone woefully wrong. 

_ Depression _ isn’t part of his vernacular, but he’s a profiler for God’s sake - he knows the signs- and he fits the criteria as well as the final missing piece of a puzzle. Depression is the messiest because it never goes away. It just hangs there, sometimes a dark cloud, other times it’s a hazy, confusing blur, a numbing ache that spreads from his mind to the rest of his body. It’s like a constant companion, an inevitable accident he can see coming from a mile away yet is powerless to stop.

_ Acceptance _ is the one he refuses to acknowledge, because none of this -  _ none of it - _ will ever make sense, ever. 

“You loved her,” the shrink says kindly after more than fifteen minutes of silence one afternoon exactly two and a half months after the day everything fell apart. “It’s okay to admit that, you know.” 

He doesn’t admit it, but he doesn’t have to. 

Through his grief, he knows, all things considered, he was  _ the lucky one _ . At least he had the chance to say a real goodbye. At least he knows the truth. 

Most days, he wishes he didn’t. 

Knowing is almost harder.

…

**_April - 2 months ago_ **

“It’s time.” JJ calls him on a secure line after a completely sleepless night one morning, before he has to put on another brave face for the sake of his team and act as if  _ all _ of this is normal. “It’s happening tonight.”

_ He knows it’s coming; this was the choice they made in March, a few weeks ago, in Boston in the middle of a cold trauma room with harsh lighting that reeked of antiseptic and littered with discarded medical supplies. Her blood was still on the floor, puddles here and streaks there, and the handcuffs Doyle had restrained her with are laying there in pieces. Those had been removed with metal cutters. He recoiled at the sight of it all. _

_ She’d made it but just barely; and according to the harried surgeon who gave them all but two minutes of her time in a mad dash to get Emily to the OR, they’re nowhere near out of the woods. Something about blood loss, a ruptured spleen, and of course, the risks of infection, trauma, shock, blood clots. The list goes on, but he tunes it out. The chance of anything less than her leaving this place alive isn’t an option. _

_ Watching her come out of it just about rips him into pieces. At first Emily is heavily sedated, which is a relief, but they’ve been warned just how much pain she’ll be in when she first wakes up. She breathes on her own and the tubes are removed almost immediately after her surgery, but the doctors were right. It’s a pain like no other - a gripping, all - consuming pain, and the morphine drip is the only thing that brings her any relief. They exchange a few words here and there but most of it she won’t remember, and when he has to leave Boston a day after the rest of them, it’s like he leaves a piece of his heart there too.  _

_ Emily is transferred to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration a few days later - he’s not there for the medivac departure but JJ sends him updates every thirty minutes. Every spare moment he can find, he checks that damn scrambled phone hidden in his pocket while he sits in meetings all day. No one even seems to notice he’s falling apart at the seams all damn day- they’re all blinded by their own grief. It’s still too fresh; they don’t belong here. _

_He goes straight to the hospital_ _once the plane lands. It's a near miracle there isn’t an accident along the way. His credentials get him past the reception desk and multiple wings until he reaches her room on the fifth floor. The heavily armed guards are about to stop him when JJ emerges from behind the door, her hair in a messy ponytail and her eyes lined with dark circles._

_ “Emily’s in a lot of pain, Hotch,” she says, sounding exhausted and looking even more so. “It was a tough flight.”  _

_ “They didn’t sedate her?” He demands, all but pushing JJ out of the way to get into that damn room. “Have you spoken to any of these doctors?”  _

_ “They did, but they’re trying to wean her off the heavy painkillers. Some of them have been making her really sick, which means she won’t eat, and if she won’t eat, she won’t -”  _

_ “She’s in pain,” he seethes, already turning on his heel to find the closest doctor.  _

_... _

_ Aaron stays by her side more than he probably should, and he’s gotten used to the sympathetic looks the nurses give when they come in for vitals checks only to see him dozing in the chair beside her. Most of the time she sleeps too, because of the sheer effort it takes to breathe through the pain and of course, coming to terms with the heavy reality that there’s no way out of this.  _

_ But there are times she’s awake, alert and mostly coherent.  _

_ "You don’t have to stay,” is what she always says as he holds her hand. “You have other things you need to do. You need to get home to Jack.”  _

_ "I’m not leaving you.” He’s firm but gentle, giving her no room to argue.  _

_ She doesn’t fight him; she doesn’t have the strength. She knows what’s coming just as much as he does. They don’t talk about Doyle, but they talk about the mundane things - the weather, the crappy movies on the TV. She asks about Jack, and the team, and Aaron doesn’t know how to tell her just how horribly they’re all grieving. It would completely shatter her.  _

_ Even his son, in his six-year-old way, expresses his own pain - his artwork is full of red and black swirls that he can’t decipher, his nightmares are frequent. He cries being dropped at school; he cries when Aaron finally turns the TV off way too late each night, having lost track of any semblance of time; he cries when he sees dark-haired women at the grocery store.  _

_ So he lies and tells Emily they’re doing alright, even if it’s the farthest thing from the truth.  _

_ They make her get up and walk before she’s ready, under the guise of expediting the healing process. He witnesses every nauseating second even though he wishes he hadn’t. There are some things that you never forget, and the image of her face contorted in pain as she betrays her body at the expense of bureaucratic bullshit is one that will stay with him for a long time. He hadn’t meant to lose his temper that day but it just happened, and as he’d carried her back to the bed himself, her body limp against him. He held her until she had fallen asleep and was there next to her when her eyes fluttered open hours later. _

_ … _

When she’s strong enough to walk around the floor without a walker for support, they start coordinating her discharge and subsequent arrangements, and he knows the end is coming. The papers are signed; the plans are finalized. The bureau isn’t happy about any of this (he knew they wouldn’t be from the moment he’d called them) but it’s a done deal and within a week, she’ll be gone, as if she actually had died in that warehouse in Boston.

He’s been awake for hours when JJ calls him a few days later, even though it’s only 5:30 in the morning. In just a few more hours, he’ll have to put on his bravest face for the sake of his team, and act as if all of this is normal, just another part of the  _ fucking _ grieving process. 

“It’s time,” she says, in a low, worn voice that tells him it’s been a sleepless night for her, too. “I’ll send you the location when I get final confirmation.”

There’s a mug of day old, cold coffee in his hands that tastes as he imagines tar might, but he drinks it anyway. He knows she’s trying to give him a sense of comfort when she mentions the private plane the bureau has arranged for transport,  _ and _ the fact that she’ll accompany Emily on the flight personally.

It doesn’t help, but he doesn’t say it. 

He  _ wants  _ to ask what comes after all of this, once they land in  _ whatever _ location they’re shipping her off to, but he doesn’t have to, because he’s done this job long enough. No one needs to know what happens next. It’s life but it’s not living; any semblance of normalcy ceases to exist when  _ you _ don’t technically exist. Emily isn’t Emily anymore. She’ll be many different people but no one at the same time, a series of aliases that sound believable and real, but none of them are her. None of them ever will be.

“She wants to see you,” is what JJ says when he doesn’t respond to her initial statement. 

“I know.” 

“It can’t be long, Aaron. Fifteen minutes at most. We can’t … there can’t be any -” 

“I know, JJ. I know how this works. I’ll be there. Send me the location when you get it.” 

Seconds after the call ends, he vomits the old coffee right back up. 

...

Aaron can hardly look himself in the mirror that day at work, knowing  _ he _ will get a chance to say goodbye when none of the others will be able to do the same. He stays in his office most of the afternoon, burying himself in the mounting piles of paperwork that have grown in his multiple absences. He loses track of time, his mind wandering all the places it shouldn’t, his heart eroding piece by piece as he backtracks through the last six months; the last time he can remember being happy in years.

They were only getting started, and now he won’t get another chance. They  _ finally  _ had given in to what’s been building between them for years, the night JJ had left that previous fall. Emily found him much later that night, drinking alone, pondering  _ why _ he still does this job, and of course, it spiraled from there. 

Emily snapped him out if his self-induced pity party. They went drink for drink, and as they got up to leave, his hand slid down to the small of her back as he ushered her out of the smoky, hazy bar just a few inches too close for it to be platonic. She’d bit her lower lip and her eyes said all the things she shouldn’t, and somehow, they both knew  _ exactly  _ what was about to happen. 

At first it was  _ solely fucking _ (or that’s what they told themselves but it was so much more than that, even from the start), but nights became mornings and mornings became coffee with breakfasts and soon enough, he asked her out on a  _ real _ date. One with reservations and a table for two and a shared bottle of wine between them, their fingers linked together as they walked around DC in the Indian summer evening.

There had been dinners out and drinks at his place, coupled with the easy intimacy that comes with years of knowing someone, and  _ then _ peeling their layers back one by one, completely unguarded. Aaron was only  _ just _ starting to break through all of her many compartments, only for her to be taken away from him so cruelly.

Of everything he grieves about Emily’s  _ death _ , he grieves this the most. 

...

“This is really against protocol,” the armed guard manning the hangar door mutters with a sigh as he unlocks it anyway. It’s clear he’s been expecting Aaron’s arrival at the airstrip, judging by how many times he’s checked his watch since he saw him get out of his car. The man is burly and gruff but his eyes are kind, sympathetic even, and Aaron can’t help but feel a small pang of relief that he (along with a few others) will  _ also  _ be on that plane with her. “She’s inside. Be quick.” 

He nods; his palms start to sweat despite the chilly night air; out of nowhere it starts to rain, a misty drizzle that soon will become a torrential downpour, and when the door opens all the way, Aaron steels himself, because he doesn’t know what he’s going to find when he slips inside. 

Emily is sitting on a small chair at a smaller, dirty table covered in dust, wearing a dark jacket and some kind of scarf around her neck. She’s holding herself stiffly; the pain is still a pretty consistent companion at this point, and she’d refused anything stronger than ibuprofen. “You came,” is what she says, but what she means is _I’m sorry_. Her lower lip trembles as she attempts a smile that doesn’t quite make it all the way across her mouth. There’s a bag beside her feet, barely big enough to fit _anything_ , but it doesn’t matter, because what could she possibly need from her _old life_ when she’s being forced to erase it? 

_ Someone will have to go through her apartment,  _ Aaron thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat at the prospect. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” 

“I … I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t. I can understand why you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry at you,” he tells her, his composure starting to unravel entirely too soon. “I’ve never been angry with you, Emily. None of this is your fault. You were doing -” 

“But it  _ is  _ my fault, Aaron. He’s still -” 

“I’ll never stop looking for him, Emily. I’m going to hunt him to the ends of the earth until he’s dead.” He’s never been more sure of anything in his life. He needs her to know that too. 

“Don’t talk about  _ him _ , Aaron. Please. Not now.” 

“How can you not -” 

“ _ Aaron _ .” Her eyes are like glass now, the tears are about to spill. “We don’t have much time.” She stands with a slight grimace; the last six weeks haven’t been kind to her in the slightest but she’s defied even the most optimistic outcomes by healing as well as she has. “I don’t want our last moments to be like this.” 

_ Our last moments. _

“I got these for Jack … a while ago I never had a chance to ...” She reaches into the bag at her feet and pulls something out - a pack of scented markers in a bunch of neon colors that remind him immediately of his son. Her hand is trembling when she passes them over. “Do you think he’ll like them? He was … upset he didn’t have any neon ones the last time I … we …” she trails off, unable to finish her thought, pressing her hand over her mouth.

“He’ll love them,” Aaron chokes, and it’s the truth. Jack will  _ light up _ when he sees them, and Aaron wonders just how he’s going to explain this to his son, who is already struggling to process the fact that Emily won’t be coming around anymore. 

“I won’t … I won’t get a chance to give them to him myself.” Her lip starts to tremble; she’s doing her best to keep her composure but her heart  _ breaks _ at the thought of never seeing that little boy again, and she has to look away. 

“You won’t be gone forever.” He doesn’t know who he’s convincing at this point. “You can’t. I won’t - I can’t -” He sees Boston again in his mind, hears Morgan’s shouts for an ambulance and the whirring of the sirens. He remembers his foot on the gas pedal, eyes glued on the ambulance in front of him, a shell-shocked Reid in the passenger seat, gripping the center console as they raced to the hospital. “I won’t let it happen.” 

“You made me so happy, Aaron. The last six months with you are the happiest I’ve ever been.”  _ That _ is what does it, and it’s almost as if he can hear her heart start to shatter in her chest as the tears begin, one by one but soon he can’t count them all. “You need to know that.” 

“Look at me,” he demands but it doesn’t sound stern at all. His voice cracks as he fights tears of his own. 

“Not like this,” she sobs now, losing whatever last bit of self-control she maintained until this moment. “Not like this.” 

“ _ Look at me _ .” He gets it together enough to speak a full sentence, albeit three words, his voice stern now, and he sounds like the Aaron Hotchner who she’s always known. “Emily, please.” 

She does, her memories of him and them right at the surface of her glassy stare, and even though he  _ shouldn’t _ , he brings his hands up to her face and kisses her the way he always has. It’s the first time he has since before Boston and will most likely be one of the very last.

Emily kisses him back even though she’s still crying, and Aaron isn’t sure where her tears start and his end because both of their faces are wet. The kisses are dizzying, demanding, as if they can’t get enough of the other, but they may never have this moment again. Her knees start to buckle and he’s right there with a gentle arm around her back to keep her on her feet. Her cheeks are sticky with tears when she lays her head on his shoulder to take a ragged breath, he breathes her in. It’s the same mix of whatever perfume and shampoo she has that makes her so uniquely  _ Emily _ that it makes his chest ache. 

“Hotch.” The voice coming from the door is one he knows well. JJ’s presence means  _ this  _ is truly it. They have minutes now, more like seconds to say their goodbyes. JJ is dressed similarly to Emily, in layers and a jacket and scarf, a bag at her side and an envelope tucked under her arm. She looks nothing like a federal agent, in fact, she looks like she’s headed on some very posh European vacation. “Hotch, it’s time.” 

“Another minute,” he chokes, but Emily shakes her head, leaning into his hand on her cheek that frames her face, gently pushing him away. 

“Promise me you’ll be happy, Aaron. For Jack. For  _ you _ . Promise me you’re going to move on from this.” She’s attempting to file this away in all those perfect compartments in her mind that are starting to blur together now, but her lip continues to shake and now her hands are too. “ _ Please.” _

_ Never _ . “I love you,” is what he says, and it’s what he means, and he should have said it months ago because maybe they wouldn’t be in this special version of hell in this dingy, cold hangar in the middle of the night while Ian  _ fucking _ Doyle runs free, waiting for one of them to make a mistake, so he can lay his revenge once again. Maybe she would have opened up to him about the storm that was brewing for so many weeks while he turned a blind eye. Maybe then none of this would ever be their reality. 

“I love you,” is what she says, and it’s what she means, and  _ she  _ should have said it months ago, because maybe then his face wouldn’t be laced with the pain that only comes with a front row seat to a shattering heart.  _ That _ ’s the image she’ll remember for the rest of her days. Of course she’ll remember the others and play them out in her mind in the hours of solitude she undoubtedly faces - the mornings she spent in his arms, the nights spent in his bed. The weekends with Jack at the museum and the zoo, the evenings with a bottle of wine and a movie neither of them will be able to remember  _ anything _ about once the credits roll, but  _ those  _ will forever be tarnished. What she’ll see when she thinks of him is how broken he looks  _ right _ now, and for a brief moment, she wishes she would have bled out on the ground in Boston. 

He’s cupping her chin in his hands, kissing her pale cheeks and running his fingers through her hair, whatever he can to sear the feeling of her skin into his memory, the contours and curves of her face. He knows them by heart now but that’s not enough, and with the gentle hand on her back he pulls her even closer, sealing his lips over hers one last time.

Emily pulls away first, dragging her shaking hands down the material of his jacket, her fingers twisting in it as the tears are streaming down her cheeks. “You,” she says through tears, with more than a hint of finality, “are the very best thing I’ve ever known.”

“I mean it,” he says as she starts to back away, slowly at first. “I’ll find him.  _ We’ll _ find him. We’ll find him and I’ll bring you home and - “ 

She shakes her head sadly as she leans in to kiss his cheek one last time.  _ He won’t _ .  _ They won’t. They never will.  _ “It was  _ never _ supposed to be this way, Aaron.” 

“Emily.” He’s still crying too, freely, not even bothering to hide it. He moves towards her as she moves back, putting the first few inches of distance between them that soon will become unquantifiable. She is too, the same deep sobs from before that make breathing nearly impossible.  _ It must be excruciating to cry like that with her body still healing, _ he thinks, as she backs up even more, away from him. “I love you.” 

“I love you, Aaron.” It comes out practically unintelligible with how hard she’s sobbing, and the only reason she doesn’t crumple to the ground is because JJ and the guard from the door are there to keep her standing as they usher her out and into the night.

Then the door of the hangar shuts, leaving him alone in a deafening silence that’s only going to get louder with time. 

...

_ Time doesn’t heal anything. It's just a fucking myth.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3 There may be a part three (because I just can't let them end this way), so stay tuned!


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They could be a mess or not, and he wouldn’t even care, just as long as she’s with him, and there aren’t thousands of miles between them. Part 3/3 - Emily comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is part three. As much as I loved shattering hearts with part two, I’m a sucker for a happy ending and couldn’t leave them in such pain. As always, enjoy! <3

_ Oh, I'm a lucky man _

_ To count on both hands the ones I love _

After the funeral, they all dive right back into their work with the usual efficiency and urgency as before. It’s what makes them the team they are, but it’s not the same. It never will be, ever again. They all know the ugly truth like some elephant that hangs in the room, and yet the only way they can begin to look past it is to do what they’ve always done - solve cases, apprehend unsubs, rinse and repeat. 

It’s an impossible situation for them all, but it’s close to unbearable for him, each day harder than the previous, his grief all consuming and real. 

_ He has to get out. He has to get out of here. Anywhere but here. _

Pakistan isn’t something he ever imagined agreeing to, but when the opportunity arises, he takes it without question and says his goodbyes to the team. He says it’s just temporary and it is. But the truth is, he just _can’t_ be there anymore. There’s no pardon from the onslaught of grief, and he can’t stand the silence that’s been a near constant since he said goodbye to her in that drafty hangar almost seven months ago. 

It’s  _ never _ silent in Pakistan, he learns quickly, with helicopters and shouting and the constant hum of something or other. Even at night there’s the sound of the whistling wind that fills his senses and drowns out most of his thoughts. He doesn’t sleep well there at all, but he hasn’t slept well in months. The heat is oppressive and cloying, like a blanket wrapped around him too tightly in the midst of a nightmare, but he throws himself into the work and doesn’t let himself think about anything for too long. 

There are no reminders of her here, but tucked in the bottom of his bag is the Yale sweatshirt she’d left behind on his bed, as if she’d come back the very next day and put it on. It doesn’t smell like her anymore - it hasn’t in months - but if he just closes his eyes, he can feel her next to him, and suddenly his bed in the middle of a foreign country, thousands of miles from home, doesn’t feel so foreign anymore. 

Jack takes his absence better than he thought. Jessica barely says a word about any of it. She’s confused by it all, that much he knows, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her the full story. She knows the basics - that Emily’s death had hit the team pretty hard - but she  _ doesn’t _ know just how hard it hit  _ him _ . And he won’t ever tell her - out of respect to Haley. It just doesn’t seem right. 

It’s not a long-term solution, he’s very much aware of that. He’s a father first and foremost and his son needs him, which becomes obvious as the weeks tick by. Each time he bids Jack goodnight as he’s about to start his day, he knows there’s only so long he can stay here, blocking out the reality of what awaits him at home. 

...

Morgan calls one day when the sun is scorching and relentless; there isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s one of the days he can’t think too much, one of the times he feels her loss more intensely than usual, but if he just focuses on the task at hand, she’ll fade into the background for a little while. One of the stages of grief, he’d thought that morning, but he’s stopped trying to pinpoint exactly which one it is. They all run together at this point - denial, bargaining, anger, depression - it’s one big mess. He still hasn’t gotten to acceptance. He never will. 

“Hotchner.” 

_ No one calls him Hotch here. He likes it better that way. _

“How’s it going out there?” It sounds like he’s treading lightly, and Aaron wonders just why Morgan would be calling him out of the blue like this without as much as a warning. 

“You know, long days. Some territorial issues to work out.” It’s just as vague but he can’t say much more than that. They never can in this line of work. 

“Nothing surprising.” Morgan doesn’t say anything else, and Aaron is smart enough to know this isn't a social call. He wouldn't be calling without a good reason. 

“How’s everything there?” 

“Hotch, we found Declan Doyle.” 

_ There it is _ . 

“What?” He nearly drops the damn phone right in the dirt, stopping in his tracks.  _ So they’ve been digging around _ , he thinks. He had a feeling they would eventually, but he’d been so blinded by grief he couldn’t focus on the fact that someone  _ else _ might be grieving just as badly, in their own way. Maybe this is how they coped for so long.

“Listen, I knew that finding the kid was the only way I could find Doyle, Hotch. I know what you’re thinking, man.” 

“Is Declan safe?” That’s his first question, because if not, they’ll have bigger problems to contend with. 

“Yeah, he is for now. I’ve had surveillance at his house and his school for a few weeks.” There’s a determination in his voice that Aaron knows all too well; he’s seen it firsthand. He knows just what happens when Morgan is set on something. There’s no stopping until it’s over. 

“Morgan, I didn’t authorize this.” His stomach twists;  _ this _ could throw everything into a tailspin. 

“I know you didn’t Hotch, but listen to me. I think Doyle may have found Declan too.” 

_ That’s all he needs to hear to confirm that the threads are starting to unravel. If someone pulls too hard, the entire thing will fall apart.  _

“All right, I’m coming back.” It’s not even a question now. 

“You want me to wait?” Morgan sounds incredulous, as if he can’t understand what’s being said. Patience has never been his strength, Aaron thinks with a shake of his head. 

“Morgan, it could be a trap. You make sure you have eyes on Doyle.”  _ We can’t lose this son of a bitch again. If we lose him again, we’ll never get him back. He’s too smart for that. And then any chance of her coming home will evaporate.  _

“And if it is him?”

“Then you take the shot.” 

He’s on a plane within twenty-four hours of taking Morgan’s call. It’s the first time he’s had a chance to think about all of this, and in the cold, dry air of the tiny cabin, he rests his head against the window and wonders just how the fuck he’s going to get through this. Just how much they’ve found, and what they  _ will _ find the more digging they do, may just completely undo everything he and JJ have buried **.**

The secrets, the truths, the lies. All of it. It might all come crashing down. 

…

They have more intel than he ever thought was possible, and despite the fact his own mind starts to spin, he’s never been prouder of his team for the work they’ve put into this, all on their own time.  _ They did all of this because of her _ , he thinks. To honor her the only way they knew how to. There are questions to ask and answers to tell but there’s more pressing issues at hand as Doyle is brought in for questioning. 

Aaron waits behind the glass wall, knowing full well if it were  _ him _ in that room he’d tear Doyle apart into pieces and enjoy every moment of it. He looks like a broken man - scruffy and tired, and he can’t help but notice the parallels between this …  _ criminal _ and himself. Two men who  _ loved _ the same woman without question, only to have their own heart decimated by the truths surrounding the circumstances of it all. It isn’t sympathy he feels, no definitely not, but an understanding of sorts. A common ground of loss.

Doyle doesn’t break, despite Morgan’s persistence, not that Aaron expected him to, and soon enough, it becomes painfully clear that  _ she _ is the only way to get to the bottom of this. “It’s time,” he says to JJ as he paces down the hall of the BAU with determination. 

“Why? Morgan may be able to break Doyle without her.”

“Declan tried to make a call. She’s on her way.” 

_ This is it.  _

Aaron struggles with what to say to the team because  _ what _ can he possibly say at this point? Once they’re all there in front of him, he starts to speak, making most of it up as he goes, his own voice sounding much more confident than he feels. “As you all know, Emily lost a lot of blood during her fight with Doyle …” Every memory he has of those days is vivid, he remembers it all in perfect, painful detail. Time hasn’t spared him an ounce of reprieve. 

“She’s  _ alive?”  _ Garcia croaks, asking the question that they’re all thinking, the tears already starting to roll down her face. She speaks for them all, each of them processing the news in their own unique way. 

“But we buried her.” Reid’s heartache is palpable, Derek’s anger even more so, and Rossi just stares between Aaron and JJ, completely at a loss for words. 

“Like I said, I take full responsibility. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed towards me.” He  _ should _ take the brunt - this was  _ his  _ doing, after all.

And then Emily is standing there, close enough that he could touch her if he wanted to. He doesn’t, because there’s a table and five other shocked and confused people between them, but also because if he does, she might disappear again. 

Her composure isn’t a surprise to any of them, nor is the fact that it’s only a matter of minutes before she’s all in again, working alongside them without missing a beat. She has answers to _all_ of their questions about the case, and the bits and pieces of what they were missing all along suddenly come together. It’s confusing, perplexing even - to watch her just assimilate right back in, and pick up where she left off. Whatever trauma that remains from her past with Doyle isn’t even obvious as she questions him only a few hours later, the perfect mix of menacing and determined, and she gets exactly what they need to put an end to all of this. He wants to know _how_ she manages to do it, _how_ she can just … start all over again without as much as a pause. But there isn’t time for anything else. Time is ticking. 

...

In Baltimore, it’s like she never left them at all. They close in on McDermott and Chloe, sirens wailing around the pier, a near constant stream of lights and noise **.** She and Reid are in charge of Doyle, leading him by the arms to the waiting airplane to make the switch and the air is still; no one dares to breathe. This all rests on a few very critical moments; one wrong move could very well be the end for them all. 

It happens impossibly fast - the gunshots take them all by surprise and Emily covers Declan immediately, taking him to the ground smoothly, and shielding his body with her own in one last protective gesture to keep him safe.

Aaron is tempted to rush to her first, to make sure she’s alright, but the blood on her arms and face luckily isn’t hers. When he goes to secure Doyle he quickly sees there’s no need; the end is near. He managed to sustain the blow from at least three of the gunshots, his blood pouring out onto the ground under his abdomen. 

“I’m sorry, son,” are Ian Doyle’s dying words as he lays on the ground in Baltimore.  _ Of all the places for him to die,  _ Aaron thinks ruefully _ , Baltimore certainly wasn’t on the list _ . When Doyle closes his eyes, Aaron closes his too, not letting himself look at Emily as they all watch the last few moments, and the light fades from his face. Declan is still in her arms as his father takes his final breath. 

_ It’s over _ . 

... 

It takes longer than he expected to secure the scene, but eventually the Baltimore PD takes over, because this is in their hands now and this is their jurisdiction. The Bureau has been calling him all night; news travels fast, apparently, with the news of Emily’s sudden, unexpected arrival causing a mini uproar even though it’s past midnight. He deals with those phone calls and a few from Erin Strauss, assuring her it will be taken care of. 

“This is just the beginning, Agent Hotchner,” she says icily, and Aaron all but ignores her. They’ll figure it out later. Tonight, he has other priorities, none of them involving the bureau or any of Strauss’s demands.

It’s the middle of the night by the time they finally get the go ahead to leave Baltimore. Emily left hours ago with Declan, to take him back to Virginia and get things settled, even though  _ things _ won’t settle for quite some time. Aaron can’t help but feel sympathy for the poor kid, who’d waited for the car with a despondent look on his face, Emily at his side. She didn’t leave him once, and she’d all but ignored Aaron’s requests for her to be seen by a paramedic, too. 

He drives alone back to Quantico, with nothing but his thoughts for company.

_ Their last moments in the hangar six months ago play at the forefront of his mind, like a loop movie on repeat. It’s a raw memory; he remembers every moment of their exchange. The way she’d felt in his arms, pliant and fragile, the salty tears on her skin and his as they’d kissed, the scent of her perfume and shampoo as he’d said his final goodbyes. He’d memorized the angles of her face, the curves of her body and he still remembers those too; it’s what’s gotten him through some of the darker days and nights. But of course he remembers the fraught, desperate way they’d clung to each other in those final moments, knowing they may never have another. There’s nothing similar to a pain like that, he’s found. _

“She’s in my office,” Rossi says when Aaron strides through the doors, looking for her, only to find the entire bullpen empty, like a ghost town. It’s like he reads right through him. “Sent her up there to get some rest when she refused to come to my place. She looked like hell. So do you. Maybe take a few days to yourself? I don’t think the place will fall apart without you. We’ve survived this long.” 

“Dave,” Aaron begins, knowing full well he owes his friend an explanation of everything, but not sure where to start. 

“Aaron,” Rossi’s expression changes, this time he’s serious. “Let it be known I’ve had my suspicions about this from the beginning. About the two of you.” 

“Dave,” he tries again to no avail, still unable to find the words he needs. 

“Luckily, that doesn’t matter anymore. What I  _ do _ know I have watched you mourn Emily for months, aching for a chance to redo all the things you never did. The rest can be figured out tomorrow. Now go up there, take her home.You’re getting a second chance. Not many people in your shoes will ever be able to say the same. Don’t throw it away.”

“You … you knew?” Aaron blinks, as if he didn’t hear Rossi at all. 

“I’m old, Aaron. I’m not stupid. Plus, I’ve been in your shoes once or twice myself.” Rossi winks, the lines on his face wrinkling with years of wisdom. “I wasn’t sure at first and God knows I wouldn’t have asked you then. But seeing you today told me all I need to know.” 

Aaron can only nod, swallowing the heaviness in his throat as Dave gives him a friendly clap on the back before disappearing out of the BAU.  _ It’s just us now _ , he thinks as he ascends the stairs. 

Emily is dozing on Rossi’s couch, her hand tucked under her cheek, lips pursed, and her knees curled up. Despite the small space, she appears to be somewhat comfortable, her eyes closed peacefully, her chest rising and falling. There’s a blanket tossed over her lap, a piece of hair in her face. And he doesn’t have the heart to wake her right away, when it’s probably been so long since she’s gotten any sleep at all. 

_ Through his sobs (and hers too) he’d tried to console her that night, and tell her it wouldn’t be forever. At the time, there was no way of knowing for sure. He’d told her he loved her - it was the truth then, still is now. She’d told him the same - that she loved him, but she’d shaken her head, clearly not believing his promise to bring her home. She’s resigned herself to her fate. He’s never not loved her, and as he watches her sleep, he closes his eyes and opens them again, just to make sure she’s still there..  _

It takes another moment to realize that not only is she awake, but she’s talking to him. 

“Aaron? How long have you been sitting there?” Emily is watching him from her place on the couch, yawning and stretching her limbs. 

“A couple of minutes,” he says, getting up from his chair and moving closer to her. 

“Liar,” she mutters, glancing at the clock on the wall. “It’s been at least an hour, hasn’t it?” 

_ She knows him well.  _ Looking at the clock, he sees she’s right. “Something like that.”

“Rossi needs to get a better couch,” she complains, grimacing. “I think I threw my back out.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s time to go home.” Aaron crouches down next to her, putting a hand on her arm. “You can’t sleep here all night.” As she opens her eyes, he wonders just how many places she’s slept in the last seven months. He’ll probably never know, and he’s not sure if he wants to, anyway.

“I don’t have anywhere to go, Aaron.” She glances around the office, her eyes hazy with fatigue. “Remember?” It’s a heart-wrenching reminder of everything that’s happened. The last few hours have been a blur - it seems barely plausible that not long ago he was in Pakistan and she was … well … still  _ dead,  _ officially. None of this is normal, yet having her back there, in the BAU, is the closest thing to normalcy he’s felt in months. 

“Come with me.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her, even when she averts hers. “We’ll figure the rest out in the morning.” 

“It  _ is _ morning.” She tilts her head in the direction of the clock; she seems uncomfortable, as if looking in his eyes is too much. “I need to check on Declan in a few hours, anyway.” 

“We will,” he assures her, his thumb brushing over her forehead, then his fingers running down her face. “I’ll take you there myself. But please, let’s go home for a little while.” 

“You’re still persistent, I see.” Something close to a smile tentatively stretches across her face. “I’m not surprised.” And then she nods in a reluctant agreement, rising from the leather couch. She only stumbles a little bit down the stairs, but Aaron still reaches out, steadying her with his hand on the small of her back.

The trip back to his apartment is quiet, both of them lost in their own respective, complicated thoughts. When he pulls into the parking lot, she glances up at his building, a touch of apprehension on her face.

“You ready?” 

He’s not sure who he’s asking at this point. 

His heart is pounding, but the only place to go is up.

**…**

“Where’s Jack?” 

It’s the first thing she asks when they step into his apartment, after he’s fumbled with the keys in his hands and they’ve climbed the steps. There’s no sign of his son anywhere - no backpack or sneakers by the chair, no toys or sports equipment littering the doorway. The entire place is spotless, as if no one even lives there. He doesn’t miss the concern in her voice when she tentatively takes a few steps further inside, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in. 

“He’s with Jessica at Hershey Park for the weekend.” 

“But -” she shakes her head, confused. The place is  _ spotless _ , she realizes upon further inspection. Blankets neatly folded on the couch, the pillows perfectly straight, even the vacuum lines on the carpets. “What’s going on, Aaron? Why does it look like no one’s lived here in months?” 

“No one has.” He reaches for the bag in her hands, setting it down on the floor. “I’ve been in Pakistan since the spring.” 

She does a double take, her eyes widening. “Pakistan? What the hell were you doing there?” 

“Special assignment.” It’s the truth, but not the whole truth, and she sees right through it, like he knew she would. 

“You left the team? After everything that happened? You left them and went to  _ Pakistan _ ? Just like that?” 

He hadn’t expected her to call him out  _ this  _ fast. “I couldn’t be here anymore, Emily. I … I had to get away.” It sounds so cowardly now, he’s refused to admit to himself  _ she _ was the reason he left, but it’s so abundantly clear. 

Her lips curl in a scowl. “That’s not the Aaron I know,” she says, hardly bothering to hide her disappointment. 

“I lost you, Emily. We all lost you … it was -” 

“You’re not the only one who lost someone, Aaron. I lost all six of you.” She folds her arms defiantly over her chest, her face full of disappointment. “They needed you.” 

“How can you say that? We wouldn’t have lost you if you’d only told us the truth from the beginning.” It’s not what he meant to say, but it’s what comes out, and she recoils as if she’s been slapped, her face growing pale. 

“I  _ couldn’t _ , she hisses, anger flashing in her eyes. “You don’t see that by now? If you can’t then maybe I shouldn’t be here in the first place.” She spins on her heel, taking a few steps toward the door, but he’s faster, and wraps his hand around her arm. “Let me go, Aaron.”

_ I won’t ever let you go again, Emily _ , is what he thinks and squeezes a little tighter. “I don’t want to fight, Emily. Not tonight. I know there’s a lot to discuss, but … please … not tonight. Please stay.”

She pulls her arm free, taking a few cautionary steps away from him, turning in a circle around his living room, looking around at the familiarity, and it hits her just how much time has passed. He’s changed nothing - he didn’t have the heart to. It’s almost exactly as it was the day she left. It’s been cleaned, a few things put away, the mail sorted, less clutter, but other than that, it’s the same. 

“I remember the last time I was here,” she whispers now, stepping further into the kitchen now. “Do you remember? It was a Sunday morning.” 

_ How could he ever forget? They’d had coffee, just the two of them, in the morning sunlight on the very same couch she just walked past. He’d made it - he’d started keeping her favorite brands around even if they made him grimace - and she sat, wearing one of his shirts and nothing else, her face free of makeup, her legs tucked beneath her and a steaming mug in her hand. They’d whispered and laughed even though it was just the two of him, his hand casually resting on her bare thigh as he sipped his own coffee, wondering just how he’d ever gotten this lucky.  _

_ And then, after coffee, and breakfast too, he’d taken her back to his room, tossing her onto his bed playfully, only stopping long enough to pull his own shirt from his body and then pushing hers up over her hips. He’d followed her down, bringing her legs over his shoulders and taking her apart with his mouth until he had to silence her moans to keep the neighbors from hearing. He’d done so with his lips, moving up and over her, loving the way her legs still shook as he’d pushed inside of her in one smooth motion. She’d sighed with pleasure when he started to move, arching up into him with a moan. A few rocks of his hips, some well-timed strokes of his thumb are all she’d needed and she’d buried her face in his neck and bit down with a whimper, bringing him with her seconds later.  _

_ It’d been peaceful, a blissful moment in time, one of the last ones he can actually remember being at ease and happy.  _

Of course, it’d all been over just days later, and most of the memories like that are just splintered fragments. But that one … that one he’ll never forget.

“Of course I remember.” 

She says nothing; she only smiles.  _ She remembers it too.  _

_... _

It’s not the passionate, cliché rushed encounter he’d imagined it would be once they’re in his room. It’s anything but frantic, instead it’s tentative, as if they’re relearning one another, afraid to make a mistake. They’ve already made enough of those for a lifetime.

Their clothes become a pile on the floor, first one piece and then the next until everything is gone, just the smooth slide of her skin against his. He just wants to look at her, to  _ remember _ her, and when he comes up and over her, her eyes darken in the dim light and he realizes she’s shaking.

“What’s wrong?” He peppers her face with kisses, only to pull away and see her staring back up at him, her eyes dark and full. “Are you alright?” 

“Aaron,” her hands are pressed against his chest, with the weight of him above her. “You don’t know about it, do you?” 

Only when she covers her chest with her hand does he realize what she means. He knows Doyle had branded her just hours before they arrived at the warehouse. He’d read the reports; he’d talked to the doctors. He knew it was there, but he’d never actually seen it for himself. The thought of it had made him sick - to consider what Doyle was willing to put her through as revenge. Her face flushes in shame. 

“Emily,” he says softly, pulling away just enough to give her space but not enough to let her pull away completely. “Emily, sweetheart.” He catches her wrists in his hands, keeping his gaze on hers. “I know already.” 

“You do?” 

He nods. “I saw the report.” 

She blinks. That makes sense; of course we would have seen that. It doesn’t stop her from averting her gaze, or her hands from trembling. 

He pins her hands down gently, just enough that she can’t try to push him away, and he glances down, staring at the crude branding of a four leaf clover just above her left breast. It’s healed, of course, but it still looks angry and red, misshapen and discolored. Her eyes are on the ceiling as he inspects it carefully, unable to watch his reaction.

“I was going to get it fixed.” She sounds almost apologetic, trembling when he lowers his head to get a better look at it. “It’s ugly,” she adds with a grimace. “But … I don’t know. I never … I don’t know if I could.” There’s baggage there too, he knows that. Baggage he’ll never understand fully, and he’s not sure he’s supposed to. Maybe one day. She’s watching him now, her hand pushing into his hair, threading her fingers through the thick strands. “I hate it, you know.”

His fingers trace over the mottled skin, gently, but with just enough pressure she knows it’s  _ him  _ and no one else there with her _. _ “Stop,” he soothes, cupping her head with his hand and pulling her up to him. “Nothing about you is ugly. Not now, not ever.” Aaron’s firm voice is a complete juxtaposition to the tenderness of his hands, and it burns a little bit when she lifts her eyes to his once again. 

_ He means every word he says, just like always. _

“I have them too, you know,” he says, kissing her cheeks and her forehead, bringing her hand to cover the puckered flesh on his right side, and then her other hand to his left. His scars are still there, the aftermath of Foyet, even after two years, and her knees tighten against his sides when she feels them, as real as the one she has now. She’s seen them before; they’re nothing new. But it’s his reminder to her, in his own unique way, that he isn’t angry with her, that he  _ still _ accepts her. He’s leveled the field, humanized her, made sense of the last seven months in one of the only ways he can. 

“Look at us,” she almost laughs, moving her hands up to his face, cupping his chin in her hands. “We’re a mess.” Then a tear escapes from the corner of one of her eyes, her forehead pressed against his. “A complete, total mess.” 

“I don’t care. I missed you,” he chokes, wishing he could just pull himself together. “I missed you so  _ fucking _ much.” They could be a mess or not, and he wouldn’t even care, just as long as she’s with him, and there aren’t thousands of miles between them. 

“I know.” Emily presses her lips to his because if she doesn’t silence him, she’ll start to cry too, more than she already has.  _ She’s missed him too. More than she ever thought was possible. _

Aaron slips his arm underneath of her to cradle her against him, unable to fully comprehend the fact that he gets to do this once more (and hopefully again and again after this time). She fits against him perfectly like she always did. 

They’ve done this before, so many times. Some have been rushed and frantic, in the middle of the night in hotel rooms across the country. Others have been slow and tender, in the early morning hours in the solace of her apartment, or his. He’d never taken her for granted, yet he’d never anticipated the fact that one day she would just be  _ gone _ . 

And because of that, he savors every possible second of it this time around. He takes his time, using his mouth and hands to bring her as close as he can only to pull back, enjoying the way she moans in frustration when he won’t just let her go. It’s a build up, seven months of time between them, and there’s not much she can do than just let it happen. He knows she’s trying to relax, to enjoy it but she’s so damn close, her entire body flushing red with effort, her legs shaking within minutes. But he’s not ready for it to end just yet. He wants her to enjoy this, no matter how long it takes. 

“Now, Aaron,” she whispers when he comes over her once again, settling between her legs and lowering himself enough to kiss her as he shifts, adjusts, and pushes into her, slowly so she can adjust to him. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs that sigh he’s heard before, but this time it nearly takes the air right out of his lungs. “God, you feel good.” 

“Em,” he manages a whisper too, kissing her wherever his mouth will reach. He knows she’s close; it won’t be long now. “I love you.” And then he moves, a quick push of his hips only to do it again, this time with a bit of force, and her eyes pop open in surprise. 

“I love you too,” she breathes, pulling him close to her and lifting her hips to meet the insistence of his. “God, I love you,” she repeats right before she breaks, her body melding against his as she takes him right over with her. 

She’s exhausted afterward and so is he, as they lay in each other’s arms in the dark. There will be plenty of time for talking later, tomorrow, and in the days to come. Now, it’s all about peace. Peace of mind that she’s home and he’s here too, peace in the fact that all of this is over. Peace that yes, they’ll get another chance, and they better not fuck this one up. 

“It’s just us, sweetheart,” he breathes in her ear when she tenses in his arms a few moments later. There’s a rattling against the windows - a tree in the wind - that sets her guard off, and he soothes her with a few kisses and a caress of his hand down her back. “You’re safe.”  _ She hasn’t stopped looking over her shoulder in the last seven months, maybe more. It’ll take time,  _ he reminds himself to be patient with her. “You’re safe,” he says again, noticing how she relaxes against him at the sound of his voice. 

She snuggles against him, unable to get any closer than she already is. “I know.”

“I told you we’d bring you home,” he says, kissing the top of her head. 

“I never doubted you would, you know. Not for a second.” 

It’s all he needs to hear.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! <3


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